The Puppet Master
by xichxliebexdichx
Summary: Kenny's life is pretty screwed up. He's a sleepless whore with a crush on his best friend, a messed up home life, and no way out when senior year is over. But the Puppet Master has an offer - one he can't refuse. But is the price too high? M for a reason


**A/N:** OH MY GOD, IT'S A K-SQUARED. Yup. I do more than just Creek, everybody. And this story has been in my head for months, _screaming_ to be written. K-Squared is actually my second-favorite pairing of all time, maybe even more like tied for first with Creek. O...O (Now there's something y'all never would've guessed.)

This is a supernatural/horror/romance-type deal. There's swearing (lots), sex (lots, hopefully), drugs (not actually much of this at all, more mentioned in passing), violence (lots), non-con (which won't be terribly graphic), maybe a little gore (which will be graphic), and a fucked-up supernatural being that I hope I did well. You won't see how fucked-up he is just yet, though, so I can't get feedback from you. Yet. XD It's also a multi-chap that I'm bent on finishing someday.

Also, the **disclaimer:** I don't own South Park, etc. etc. Big surprise.

ANYHOW. Get on with the reading, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter One:**

One Day Before

_In Which Our Hero Introduces and Explains Himself._

*-One Day Before-*

I woke with a start, my heart pounding violently against my ribs like a caged animal trying to break free. Looking feverishly around my room with wide blue eyes, I only saw a small pile of dirty clothes, the scattered contents of my hand-me-down backpack, and a bunch of random shit I'd found on the streets over time. Some part of my brain insisted the black-skinned creature from my dream (or _nightmare_) would be standing over me and grinning evilly with his too many teeth while I slept. After about a minute of trying to control my breathing, I finally let myself relax, falling back against my flat pillow with a groan, covering my face with my hand. I couldn't get the monster's long, pointed face out of my head. No way was I going back to sleep now.

Letting myself lie around uselessly for a while, I stared at the stucco ceiling in the coming light. Pretty soon I could see the face in the Spackle, though, and had to throw off my thin sheets and launch myself out of bed. Sliding open my closet – careful not to break the stupid door again – I tossed through my wadded clothes for something remotely acceptable to wear to school. Wearing work clothes to class would get my ass sent to the counselor. They only cracked down on the dress code when it came to me, I swear. At least I have enough clothes to fill my drawers and still find something slightly less condemning than fucking Daisy Dukes. When you're still living on welfare, things like socks and souvenir shirts are a damned godsend. Speaking of which, the cleanest, least trashy thing I pulled up to my nose first was some history museum thing Stan picked up when he went to Chicago for vacation. He gave it to me for Easter. I think he felt bad about seeing me in the same six shirts for four months. As I threw the thing on over my sleep-mussed head, I sighed. Even after all this time, my friends still pitied me. Or at least, they pitied my income. They probably didn't know about anything else.

Okay so that's pretty vague, but I bet I'm right. I continue to get dressed and throw shit back into my backpack as I think bitterly about everything wrong with my life. Everything my friends don't know anything about.

I doubt that they knew about my brother, about my "part time job," about my plummeting grades. They didn't know about how much it hurts to die and come back; about never being remembered, about how much I fucking hate it. They didn't know about my mom crying in the middle of the night, or why I'm so exhausted by the time the weekend rolls around. They didn't have a clue about my hopeless crush on Kyle, which I've had since seventh grade, and how every time I die… they didn't know that the last thing I think about is whether or not he cares. He doesn't have to care a lot, but just… something. _Anything._ I think I'd bear everything that much easier if Kyle Broflovski cared.

I picked up the iPod sitting on the edge of my mattress as I swing my backpack over my shoulder, and I'm automatically thrown into a brief, happy memory. I didn't have a lot of those.

*-Two Years, Eight Months, and Two Weeks Before-*

"Happy birthday, Kenny!" my three best friends chorused in unison, Stan and Kyle holding out a package wrapped in metallic orange. We were standing at our bus stop in the extra-cold morning air on March 22nd of our freshman year – my fifteenth birthday – and I hadn't even remembered the day's significance myself until they spoke up.

"What?" I eventually asked, blinking dumbly at the box with its silver bow and my name scrawled in Sharpie. A present? I thought incredulously. "Is that—?"

"For you? Yeah, dumbass," Kyle finished for me, enthusiastic. Grinning, he pushed it into my hands. "From all of us… even fat-ass."

"Ay!" Cartman barked. "You're damned right I helped!"

"…Well go on, open it!" Stan pressed impatiently, the anticipation pouring out of his words.

Snapping out of my amazed stupor, I obeyed, slowly removing the bow to savor this heartrending moment, much to the audible agony of my friends. Smirking slightly to myself, I then decided ripping it open would be way better. Clawing at the paper, I froze as the content of the plastic box stared back at me in all its expensive, brand new glory. Holding it up, I gawked at the iPod Classic in my hands as if I was holding an unattainable dream. I was speechless with a combination of disbelief, joy, and this unnamable swelling in my chest that made my eyes sting.

Stan seemed reluctant, worried. "Yeah, dude," he managed to say with excitement. "We uploaded some music for you, too, since you don't have a computer…"

"And I had Kevin Stoley put in a really good battery," Kyle added, grinning.

"So it won't hafta charge all the time."

"It's eighty gigs, too, po' boy," Cartman offered, snickering. "So you can even put your porn on it!"

Shooting Eric a dirty look, Kyle whacked him on the arm halfheartedly and smiled hugely up at me as he told me to look on the back. "We got something engraved."

Numbly, I opened the packaging to find a white, two-hundred-dollar-mp3-player with a polished silver back. Turning it over, I read the inscription and choked back an embarrassing onslaught of tears.

_Happy Birthday, Kenny!_

_We love you, dude!_

_Kyle, Stan, and Eric_

"Happy birthday, dude," the redhead repeated, giving me a long, thrilling hug when silent tears began to fall down my face. I couldn't label the emotion that had bubbled and made me look so pathetic, but Kyle didn't seem to mind, letting me hold his him as he helped me stay on my feet, Stan patting me on the back with a sad smile, Cartman looking uncomfortable and unsure.

"Thanks, guys," I sniffed.

"Happy birthday," Kyle murmured softly again.

*-One Day Before-*

Smiling sadly to myself, I stuffed the music player into my jeans as I tightened my belt, running my thumb over the message on the back and darting out of my room. I always touched the engraving, reminding myself not to give up. I had never gotten such a deep gift before. Music was one of the only things that helped keep me sane, and the fact that they got the thing _engraved_… I don't know, maybe it's stupid, but that iPod meant a lot to me.

"'Sup, lil' bro?" Kevin drawled as I passed him in the hallway, smacking my ass sharply before I could dodge. I said nothing, tensing and heading to the kitchen faster. In my head, I willed him to leave so I could eat my Poptarts in peace, but since I'm obviously not psychic, he just stalked me with a chuckle.

Sitting at the table with my small breakfast, I avoided his hungry hazel eyes, tearing into the Poptarts with stiff shoulders. He knows he freaks me out when he does that – I really, really hate being stared at – and he _loves_ it. As if he didn't torture me enough, my brother has a thing for _rubbing it in._

"So. Kinny," he began slowly, using his thick accent as some kind of incentive to get my attention. I didn't look up from my pastries, chewing carefully in case I was due for another choking death anytime soon. It had been weeks, after all. "You gotta _work_ tonight?"

Freezing with my food an inch from my mouth, I shut my jaw and finally glared at him. He was referring of course, to my "part time job." He loves using it against me. I don't do it for fun – I don't know anyone who does, and I could get "fun" sex any time I wanted it – but for the money it brings in. I help pay the bills with my "work," but our parents think I work shifts at the convenience store a few miles away. My clients don't really mistreat me, and I go out of town, so while I pretty much hate myself for it, I do it.

"No," I informed him tightly, going immediately back to eating. I was almost finished when the legs of his chair scraped on the peeling linoleum, and I knew he was behind me without having to take my eyes off of the table. The back of my sweatshirt was jerked backward, dragging my seat back with it. With my jaw seized before I could even register what was happening, my head was yanked up, Kevin's lips crushing mine as he stood over me, grip tight on my face and soon my neck, to ensure there'd be no escape.

Rigid, I made no move of protest, knowing full well what it would earn me if I didn't just shut my eyes and let him do what he wanted. I wanted to see my friends today, and fighting usually got me killed. The saddest part was that this wasn't weird for us. My brother kissed me all the time. He fucked me a lot, too, and I knew instantly that this kiss meant he'd screw me tonight no matter what condition I came home in. Like I'd ever had a choice in the matter. Remember that hand on my throat? Yeah, he's never trusted me enough not to threaten me in some way. Ha, _trusted._

I trusted him once.

I fought back the first few times. Even now I wasn't willing, but I especially lacked the energy today to knock his lights out the way I had managed to when I was fourteen. I think it had been the seventh time he'd come for me, and I somehow nailed him in just the right place on his head to make him lose consciousness. I ran to Kyle's house, and he let me sneak into his room and sleep in his bed that night. I still sneaked into his room sometimes, but it had been a while. He's never once turned me away. Anyway, when it came to Kevin, I learned to pretend it didn't kill me more inside every time, hope he'd kill me afterward, and hope he would never make good on his threats to do the same thing to our little sister, Karen. I couldn't live with myself if I couldn't somehow protect her from him, and he knew he could use it against me.

Eventually Kevin stopped salivating in my mouth long enough to smirk with triumph. "Have a good day at school, Kinny," he called over his shoulder, heading out to his run-down truck and leaving me to stare at the far wall of the kitchen as I held my breath. The chipping paint was starting to get blurry by the time I heard the engine of that fucked-up Chevy roar to life. I finally took a breath again, alone.

"Hey, dude," Stan greeted casually as I sauntered leisurely up to him and our resident neo-Nazi. "You okay? You look kinda… sick." He eyed me wearily, frowning slightly as I shrugged.

"Don't I always?" I replied, smirking.

"You look… I dunno, _pale_, dude."

"'M fine. Didn't sleep so great is all," I offered, shoving my hands into my pockets and habitually fingering my iPod. "Where's Kyle?" He was usually here by now, and considering how often he was on my mind, it was no surprise I asked. No surprise to me, anyway. Like I said, they didn't know.

"That stupid Jew forgot something," Cartman answered in an exasperated tone. "You know Jews. Their memories are just inferior to—OW!"

"Shut up, Cartman!" Kyle bit sharply, socking him harm in the arm and earning a whine from the overweight racist. He smiled up at me. "Hey, Kenny."

Adrenaline suddenly rushed through my veins, and I automatically grinned back at the gorgeous redhead. He laughed at the instant change from gloom and disinterest to cheer and energy, and then we were talking. He's too easy to talk to, and he doesn't bullshit me the way ninety percent of everybody else does.

"You doing anything tonight?" Kyle asked once we were on the bus. He was sitting with Stan while I sat with Cartman behind them. His fiery head rested on his arms as he twisted around to look back at me; he was addressing everyone, but his jade eyes were locked on me, so I knew he was looking for my answer first. This alone brought my spirits higher. "Wanna game?"

Of course I did. Violent video games and junk food with friends takes my mind off of all the shit that rides my back. A few hours of mindless play would do me some good. I just hoped nothing would get in the way. "Yeah, dude," I answered eagerly, my grin genuine. Leave it to Kyle to make me smile for real.

He smiled hugely back, a hint of red in his cheeks, probably from the cold. As Stan and Cartman confirmed that they'd show up, too, the conversation turned to some test we had later, and I never took my eyes off of his stunning face. He kind-of did have a Jew-nose, but it was hardly noticeable, and I thought it was cute. His light freckling made it look that much smaller, anyway, and his eyes more than took away from it. Like I gave a fuck about the shape of his nose. It really wasn't bad at all, but he was self-conscious about it, so I tried not to look too long at it, gazing shamelessly at his eyes instead, grinning like the idiot I was every time he glanced to me. I hardly paid any attention to what anyone said.

"Kenny, this is unacceptable," my algebra teacher sighed, my homework from last night covered in red marks on his desk. It was the end of fourth period and the beginning of lunch, and he was holding me after class to chew me out. He began a lecture about how math applied to nearly everything in real life, and I almost immediately tuned out, glancing sideways to see Craig and Tweek pass outside the doorway, the twitchy blonde halting mid-step when he caught my gaze. His whole body froze, going rigid as he stared at me with unnaturally wide chocolate eyes. But his eyes were doing something really weird – they looked like they were moving sideways in short, jerky motions, his irises vibrating like the rest of him usually did. He seemed to look just past me as Craig backed up and frowned, following his gaze. They gray-eyed prick carefully took the side of the boy's face and turned it away from me to himself, seeming to break the spell. Tweek suddenly cried out, snapping out of it and trembling violently. I blinked, raising an eyebrow, and as the pair began to walk off, the coffee kid's eyes glanced past me again. This time I looked suspiciously behind me, slightly irritated at this weird behavior (not that Tweek doesn't act weird on a regular basis), and saw nothing. When I looked back to Tweek, they were already gone.

"KENNY."

"What?" I blurted, my attention snapping back to my teacher.

"Did you even _try?_" he accused, scowling. He looked pissed off, probably because he'd been yelling at me while I wasn't listening. "Or were you b.s.-ing your way through the work?" he demanded sternly, raising an eyebrow.

I didn't look him in the eye, rubbing the back of my neck and shrugging. He was one of those teachers that called kids out on their shit almost every time. He made me nervous and annoyed, had me thinking he would read my mind if I met his penetrating stare. I had a bizarre feeling he would somehow find out everything, and it fucking scared me to death. "Sorry," I mumbled, frowning slightly to keep up my illusion of shame. Of course, I could've given a rat's ass about schoolwork, since it was hell and I wasn't exactly going to get anything out of it. I scribbled shit down when I was supposed to, but I never really knew anything about my 'notes.'

"We have tutors available – students in advanced classes," the sharp man said pointedly. "If you'd like, I could talk to someone and schedule sessions," he offered, seeming to soften for some reason. "Is there an outside influence on your performance here at school?" he asked quietly, narrowing his gaze thoughtfully.

"What?" I said, playing dumb like I didn't have any idea of what he could possibly mean. "No, I-I'm just stupid, Mr. B," I went on nonchalantly, smiling sheepishly for added effect. It wasn't entirely a lie.

"Well then, if you're absolutely convinced," he began sarcastically, not seeming to buy it. Shifting in his chair, he gave me a disapproving look and sighed again. I saw a hint of that fucking _pity_ in his eye and stiffened slightly. "I'll talk to my tutors. We'll help you, Kenny," the man assured me.

"Yeah, okay," I mumbled noncommittally. "Can I go now?"

"See you tomorrow, Kenny."

Great. Now I had to come up with a fake "outside influence" that would get me out of tutoring sessions. Like I had time to sit around with some nerdy kid that was as pitiful as me, even if it was in completely different ways, for help with goddamned school. What the hell am I talking about? I liked _Kyle_ for Christ's sake, and he was nerdy as _hell_. I had a _thing_ for nerdy. But that wasn't the point. I really didn't have time. I was lucky enough to have free time tonight with my usually full plate.

"Dude, what took you so long?" Stan asked when I finally approached our usual lunch table. The agonizingly taunting smell of fried chicken hit my nostrils, and I couldn't help but groan hungrily, my stomach growling as I set my half-empty backpack on the floor. "My mom bought KFC for us, dude!" he informed me excitedly, offering the bucket before him to me. "Want some?"

"Aw, hell _yeah_," I answered in a growl, grinning and delving into the bucket, immediately tearing into a delicious, deep-fried chicken breast. "Thanks, dude," I said, mouth full.

Kyle scooted over to make room for me, even though there was plenty of room between Stan and Cartman, who was devouring his own chicken over the school lunch he'd already finished. Fat-ass. Of course, I sat next to my Jewish crush, returning his amused smile tenfold. "Christ, Ken. Have you eaten yet today?" he wondered after a moment, skeptically watching me chow down on the delicious fat and protein.

"I had breakfast," I allowed, nearly finished. He was so cute when he worried about people. I noticed Cartman had the box of biscuits, and I reached over, plucking one out from under his bulbous nose.

"Ay!" the brunette spouted when he saw me take a bite.

"Dude, they're for everybody," the dark-haired jock next to Kyle sighed.

Kyle stared flatly at the fat-ass before looking sideways at me. "You're coming to my house later, right?" he asked hopefully, his cheeks lightly tinted pink.

Swallowing my mouthful of chicken and biscuit, I offered him an enormous shit-eating grin that made him again put on that brilliant amused expression I love so much. "I will do my best to grace you with my presence, dude," I drawled cheekily.

"Fags," Cartman muttered, rolling his hazel eyes. "AY!" he barked with annoyance, jumping slightly when I delivered a sharp kick to his shin, as I bit casually into the rest of my biscuit. "Who the hell did that?" he demanded.

Kyle gave him a suspicious, uncertain look. I shrugged at the fat-ass's question as the redhead sighed, "Cartman, you are such an attention whore."

"AY!" he barked again, seeming more indignant. "Don't call me a whore, you filthy Jew!"

"Don't belittle my people, fat-ass!" Kyle snapped, fire in his too-green eyes. Damn, but I loved that passion. I smirked, watching the temperamental boy with quiet fondness as I picked the remaining meat from my first hunk of chicken. "And you are _so_ an attention whore!" he scoffed, rolling his eyes too as he folded his arms. "You interrupt other peoples' conversations _constantly_ with your _constant bullshit_ so we stop _ignoring_ you!"

Stan raised an eyebrow as he considered this accusation, and I couldn't help but chuckle at Eric's faltering expression. His mouth was hanging open dumbly, making him look even more retarded than usual. I kicked him again, for the hell of it, and he yelped, causing Kyle to let out a dramatic, flustered groan that made a lock of his curly, wavy carmine hair move out of his eyes. Cartman's reproachful eyes finally caught my smirk, and he pointed at me with his entire arm, earning a challenging look from me and a disbelieving glare from my favorite redhead.

"Goddammit, that hurt, po' boy!" Cartman accused. "Cut that shit out or I 'm gonna kick you in the _nuts!_" the brunette threatened.

"Cut what out?" I asked innocently.

"Leave him alone, asshole," Kyle said tightly. I glanced sideways at the boy, smiling slightly to myself at his defense of me.

"Kinny kicked me!" Cartman whined, failing at a puppy pout.

"Suck it up, fat-ass," the now amused Jew chuckled, smirking.

"Guys, knock it off already," Stan intruded just before Cartman could rebuttal. "How the hell do you even get this far?" he mumbled, frowning wearily.

"How, indeed," Kyle murmured grudgingly, glaring at the neo-Nazi.

"Stupid Jew," Cartman grumbled.

"Fucking fat-ass," the redhead muttered in turn.

"So I heard Red is having a party at Token's next weekend," I interjected, trying to redirect the hostility. This actually got their attention, and I felt accomplished. "She's turning eighteen. I bet it's gonna be sweet."

"Dude. Isn't she like, a whore or somethin'?" Cartman blurted before Stan could speak.

I scowled. "Shut the fuck up, asswipe," I lowed through my teeth, my heart beating six hundred times a minute. "Why the hell do people talk like that?" I growled to myself, glaring at the second piece of chicken in my hands.

"_What_, I'm just sayin'!" the tub of lard said defensively.

Here's the thing. Red _is_ a whore. She's one of Darren's girls, just like I'm one of his boys. Yup. There it is, my confession. Just in case you didn't already pick up on the fact that I'm a fucking prostitute. But if people kept on talking about Red like she was garbage for it – the way I already felt about myself – I was afraid she'd do something drastic. I'd already lost a friend from the biz to her classmates' bullying. Her home-life had been almost as fucked-up as mine, and she was just trying to get out, you know? She wasn't a bad person, she was just… dealt a shitty hand in life. I could relate. So could Red. So I tried not to help rumors spread. Don't think of me as too noble, though – I had selfish reasons, too. Yeah, sure, I was a notorious man-slut in school and I still hit on everyone with a pulse, but the last person I wanted to know about my job was a certain passionate Jew that would probably hate me if he knew. I don't think I could live with myself if Kyle—

"Besides, _you're_ one to talk, Kinny. Weren't you making out with Bebe under the stairs yesterday?" Cartman accused, right on cue. I was about to leap to my feet and overreact to the accusation I was perfectly used to, but to my heart-stopping shock, Kyle did it instead.

"Shut the _fuck_ UP, fat-ass!" he raged, slamming his palms down flat onto the table and startling Cartman as he abruptly stood, enough so that the brunette lost his balance and fell backward off his bench, landing with a thick _thud._ Kyle blinked, cinnamon eyebrows shooting up in surprise, heated expression dropping instantly to one of amused disbelief. The Jew laughed, and Cartman whined as he tried to roll over and get up. This made me start in, too, and I felt so much better, especially when Kyle laughed harder. His laugh is contagious, and I always feel somehow ten times happier, more at ease when I hear it. Others noticed our fat friend failing to get off the floor, and soon they were laughing, too. Stan, typically, was pinching the bridge of his nose. I looked to Kyle, who was smiling warmly at me as the counselor came in to see what all the fuss was about. I mouthed a quick thanks, and he mouthed back, "Any time, dude."

I haven't wanted to kiss him so badly in weeks.

"Darren wants to talk to you, 'Kitty,'" a familiar voice murmured carefully, her soft alto almost drowned out by the slam of my locker door.

"What," I deadpanned, my heart dropping into my stomach as I stared aghast at Rebecca – aka, 'Red' – anxiety gripping my lungs.

"I don't think you're in trouble. He's pissed, but… he just wants to talk," she reiterated, popping her bubblegum and looking sympathetic. The chick had this thing about always needing something to do with her mouth. Guess what her cheapest service was? She was wearing her hot-pink pleather mini-skirt and a low (-low-low) cut quarter-sleeve thing in purple under her long trench coat, so nobody saw her slutty outfit unless she revealed it. Darren's girls had uniformity to their work clothes: pink and purple. His boys worked orange, usually day-glo. In fact, that's what brought me to his attention, the day I got my 'job…'

*-Two Years, Six Months, and One Week Before-*

North Park is slightly bigger than South Park, with an even more obvious economic divide. The poor side of town was as ghetto as my slice of street, which is drastic because my house is the worst on the block. The other half of town was upscale, yuppie-type splendor. You know, American Dream shit. Well, anyway, between the two extremes is a strip of retail and office buildings they consider "downtown." Alder Avenue is where I work – well, where I get work. The corner of Alder Ave and 22nd St is where Daddy Darren's "employees" lure in income. There are others, but Darren practically owns the biz in North Park.

So it was a warm day in June about two years ago that I was wandering around North Park, wanting to get away from the fighting at home while my friends were all out of town, that I found a small pawnshop. The pawnshop itself is of no significance, but stay with me, here. I went inside, eyed the jewelry, furniture, and various TV sets suspiciously, got yelled at for loitering, and left. The sun had only just begun to set, and in my exploring, I took Alder Avenue down toward the train tracks I always followed into and out of town. This was just after I'd retired my parka and before I got the hoodie I wear now from Kyle, so I had a simple orange sweatshirt from the thrift shop on. The hood was up of course, I was wearing the swim trunks I'd been wearing for five days in a row, and I had no shirt on. It was summer, but I like hoods, so sue me. Anyway, I was minding my own business meandering across 20th Street, when this silver BMW pulled up slowly just behind me, following me at a crawl as I walked. At first, I didn't really notice, too caught up in my daydreams about a redhead covered in whipped cream to catch sight of the tinted window rolling down as the car came closer and an impatient looking man leaned out with a slight frown.

"Hey. Hey, blondie," he hissed loudly.

Now, this I noticed. Strangers had a tendency to call me "kid," "blondie," or "kid in the hood." It was annoying. But I paused, turning to the car and raising an eyebrow as it also stopped. The man smiled, the driver with no visible expression, eyes hidden behind aviators that reflected me even from ten feet away. My hands stayed in my pockets as I said, "Yeah?" unsurely. There was a small pocketknife between my fingers, something I'd nicked from Kevin to screw around with. I just thought knives were cool, really, but maybe it was actually going to come in handy.

"How much, cute stuff?"

I stared dumbly at him, thinking I'd misheard. "How much what?" I echoed, brow furrowed as I awkwardly shifted my weight. They weren't serious, were they? He was sending creepier and creepier vibes by the second. I kind-of wanted to bolt. I'm a fast motherfucker, too. Maybe not as fast as Tweek or Kyle, but I could totally shake two assholes in a car if I had to.

"How _much?_" he repeated, making a show of eying me up and down, his grin getting dirtier. I instinctively followed his gaze and realized my hoodie was only half-zipped, partway open and exposing quite a lot of my chest. "Two guys, one night?" he went on as I stared at him with wide eyes, finally letting myself evaluate his assumption. "We'll even get ya dinner," he offered me, leaning cockily out his window. "Whaddaya say, kid?"

"I—I'm not a _whore_," I told him irately, trying to appear as offended as I was even though I was nervous.

The man laughed. "Sure, we can call ya somethin' else if ya want!"

Taking a step back further onto the sidewalk, I repeated myself, gripping my small knife anxiously. "I said I'm not a fucking _prostitute_." Spinning on my heel, I began walking quickly away, but the car followed easily. My heart sped up in panic as I prepared myself to dash, images of my brother making my throat and mouth dry.

"Aren't you one of Daddy D's?" the man questioned, testy. "They're in orange, and good from what I hear," he explained, as if this meant anything at all.

"I don't know who the hell 'Daddy D' is!" I shouted, whirling to face them again and clenching my fists, scowling. "Fuck off, you creepy ass—"

"Gentlemen, how may I help you?"

Startled, I spun around to come face-to-face with a tall black man's business smile. He had a gorgeous, scantily clad, well-endowed brunette on one arm and a painfully cute Asian boy in short-shorts on the other; the two sized me up as their center did, smiling faintly. The black man was viciously handsome, especially smiling like he was, and I froze.

"I'm so sorry, gentlemen, but this fine piece of ass ain't in the biz, y'know what 'm sayin'?" the chocolate-eyed man said smoothly. "But my boy Jeremy here would be more than glad to keep you company." As he spoke, a sandy-blonde boy about a year older than me appeared out of nowhere with a purposely shy demeanor, despite his baby-doll shirt and precariously tight jeans-shorts. I couldn't help but eye him myself. "Jeremy is real tight. Ain't chu, Jer?" he chuckled, slapping the kid's ass and earning a well-rehearsed squeak from him.

The man looked sheepish at their mistake, not meeting my eyes, but elated at the sight of my 'tight' replacement. I glanced up to the man who'd saved my ass, and flinched to find him staring. "Well, thank you, Daddy Darren," the BMW guy said nervously. "Hop in the back," he told the blonde, who instantly complied.

"Goodbye, gentlemen," Darren called as the car sped off. Immediately his attention turned to me, his smile dropping. "Who the hell 're you?" he demanded.

"Uh," I muttered. I took a step backward. "I'm from South Park."

"Didn't ask where you from," he said. "I asked who you is, boy." Apparently his grammar was reserved for customers only. Ha, like I was one to talk.

"Kenny," I answered, frowning. My instincts resurfaced, and I wanted to run for the third time in the last five minutes. Getting involved with pimps wouldn't improve any part of my life. "Uh, thanks for that, but I gotta go—"

"You poor, Kenny from South Park?"

I froze again. Was it that obvious? "What?" I replied weakly.

"Need some cash?" Darren asked. I looked at him again, at his smarmy smirk. "Take off that hood." I felt compelled to obey, yanking my hood off my head and feeling pretty exposed. "You fine, boy," he praised, nodding slowly and taking in my entire appearance. I blushed slightly. "How'd you like to be one of my boys?"

At this point I was totally unwilling to think about really anything. I just wanted to go home, even though "home" wasn't exactly where I wanted to be. Kevin would be home by now, and he was pretty much the last person I wanted to see. Ever. Always. Well, fuck. Now I had convinced myself to stall going home even longer. But I didn't want to become some North Park whore. Yeah, earning some money with my body had occurred to me before, but my brother was already using me for the same damned thing. Why the hell would I let complete strangers steal my dignity, too? Well I guess it wouldn't be "stealing" for them. Fuck. It was too late to be worrying about my dignity anyway. I had none left to my name. Besides, maybe I could help mom pay the bills. It's not like I was some fragile virgin, anyway. Right?

"Whatchu say, blondie?"

I had been staring mindlessly at the pimp while I decided. My gut churned as I let myself quietly say, "Yeah."

Daddy Darren grinned, revealing a gold tooth. "Good, good. Now, your first client will be… me." As if on cue, the two whores on his arms stepped away, sizing me up again with interested smirks. Darren's smile was almost dangerous as he motioned for me to follow. Now I was actually a little scared, his bulk intimidating, but I followed. He led me back to a run-down house a block away, and I almost felt right at home – except for the crack whores. I wasn't so used to that, even if my parents used to do meth. A woman in only a satin bathrobe was lying on her back against a hallway wall, smiling and giggling with her legs in the air, a pipe in her hand. He opened a room with a mattress on the floor, and as I hesitantly went in first, he shut the door.

"Take off yo' clothes, fool," Darren chided when I stood stiffly nearly the bed, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do while growing more and more anxious. "You done crack, kid?" he asked as I began pulling my hoodie off over my head. "Naw, fool – do it sexy," he instructed, approaching me when I reached over my shoulder and grabbed more of my sweatshirt. "It fucking zips, too, ya dumb ho…"

"I don't do crack," I stated as he stood in front of me, towering above my head.

"You prob'ly will. You come to me when the time comes." Unzipping my hoodie and yanking my trunks down, he began telling me how to strip properly. "Half the work is show, y'know what 'm sayin'? You gotta make 'm so hot they _crazy_." He laughed as I nodded and blushed slightly. I was used to heat-of-the-moment, hasty sex – clothes off, fuck, pass out, in that order. Not that I didn't know how to drive someone mad with want. I was just too bewildered at the moment, and I kept thinking of Kyle. What would he say if he ever found out? No, he could never know…

Darren was like a sex teacher, a little rough, but in instructing me in the ways of prostitution, he managed to make me feel good. It was nothing like what Kevin did to me, and different from sex with people my age. Darren was in his late twenties, with a dick the size of fucking Texas. When he plowed into me, immediately hitting my sweet spot, he reminded me to act like it was the best sex I'd ever had, every single goddamned time.

"You gotta get good at actin', blondie," he told me through a grunt, "Clients wanna think they be gods. An' they got diff'rent tastes. Sometimes you gotta let the bitches top, and top the fags. Can you top?" he asked almost threateningly.

"Y-yeah," I replied, gripping the edge of the old mattress. I was actually used to being top, so it wouldn't be a problem.

"Show me."

So I did. Which was fucking bizarre considering I was probably less than half his weight, at half a foot shorter, too, but he said I was pretty good for a 'cracker kid,' and that as I grew I'd get even better.

"You come workin' at least four days a week, now," he demanded when we'd apparently finished, eying me up and down as I stretched, nodding in approval. He lit up a pipe, offering it to me once I'd fallen flat on my back, laughing when I shook my head. "I get half whatchu make, kid. Every damn time, you got that? Tips don't count," he went on as I started getting dressed again. "You use them condoms – my bitches be clean," he stated, appraising me again as my clothes went back on. "You mine for three years, blondie," he said lowly, holding up his pinkie, ring, and middle fingers and narrowing his gaze. "How old 're you, anyhow?"

"Fifteen," I answered honestly, realizing afterward that I should've lied. But Darren only nodded. Oh, yeah. Like a pimp would give a flying fuck about whether or not I was legal.

"You c'n quit when you's eighteen," he said decisively. "What's yo' name again?"

"…Kenny."

"Right, Kenny from South Park. Now get outta here. I'll find you for yo' first real client." Chuckling, he reached under the mattress and produced six twenty-dollar bills, offering them to me. "Any otha time, you'd be givin' me half this shit. Bit since it's me, I'll let this one go," he said with amusement. "Rule numba one: Always set yo' price first. You c'n be 'bout one-twenty, one-forty to start."

"Okay." I nodded, still slightly breathless.

"You call me Daddy D or Daddy Darren, got that?"

"…Yes, Daddy D."

*-One Day Before-*

Darren is actually a freakishly nice guy for a pimp, so my co-workers tell me. _You're lucky to be one of __his__ bitches,_ they remind me. Even so, last time he wanted to "talk," he was pretty pissed. I'd accidentally taken his bottom bitch's client, and she ran crying to him. I came home a little bruised from his fist and his grip when he fucked me, having threatened to not let me work that week if I didn't accept my punishment. We were overdue on the mortgage at home – I _had_ to work that week – so I took it. Not like I wasn't used to it, though, so I hadn't even let myself argue or cry. I don't cry too much anymore. It takes something pretty brutal to get tears out of me nowadays, at least when it came to physical pain.

I rushed outside when Red told me Darren wanted to talk again, in hopes of speeding up the process. If he wanted to do me, I just hoped he'd be quick so I could make my week by getting to Kyle's as fast as possible. I shoved open the heavy side doors on the small end of school (a meeting place for most messed-up people at our school), instantly greeted by Darren and Jasmine: his favorite, his bottom bitch. Her lengthy black hair was divided up into four messy buns at the back of her head, her make-up smeared, from what I didn't know or really care.

"Kenny," Darren said with sickly sweetness, slapping my ass and making me yelp as I nearly bypassed him in my haste to leave school. "What's up, ho?" Turning to face him hesitantly, I swallowed at his somewhat demented grin and the glint in his eye. He wrapped an arm around my waist and brought me flush against him before I could answer. "So I need you tonight," he deadpanned, dark eyes staring me down severely.

I blanched, the night's plans of video games with a heavenly redheaded Jew flying out the window. "Um, Daddy D," I began nervously, carefully trying to push myself away only to be crushed into him harder. It was something like a warning. "I… I kinda, sorta… _had plans_," I pleaded, speaking the last part quickly as if it would lessen the impact, using my cutest voice, one even he'd been known to melt for.

His hand pulled my hood back suddenly to grab a fistful of my hair, and he yanked sharply down to make me face him; I sucked in through my teeth at the sting. "Shut up, _bitch_. I _said_ I needed you tonight. Get in the damn car," he growled, literally snarling.

Swallowing the lump in my throat as my heart sank in defeat, I nodded the little I could with his grip. He released me, and all three of us went to his souped-up SUV. Climbing into the backseat, not putting on my seatbelt as I leaned against the door to stare blankly out the window, I silently willed the car to crash so I could die. It would be better than an overfilled night and a testy pimp. I thought of my temperamental best friend and smiled a little. It helped me through more than one night to think of him.

I just hoped Rebecca caught up with him and told him something had come up.

When I got home, I crashed immediately. My threadbare bed was suddenly soft as satin, and my over-tired, over-worked body went limp instantly. I did four guys tonight, pretty much in a row. One of them was a regular of mine, a kind-of nice guy that nicknamed me his "Tight Kitty," something even co-workers sometimes call me. Yeah, it's humiliating, but if it turns him on, thus adding to my pay, who am I to tell him off? On top of a particularly rough throw in the sheets with him, I was graced with a double – twins, no less – only an hour later. Barely into their twenties, they were into that whole double-penetration thing. I think they liked it when my eyes misted. The last was an older guy, just a little lonely and in the closet for life. He treated me to a late dinner, and had me top. He was quick, and thankfully he'd given me a ride into town. Giving me a twenty-dollar tip, he said I should save up for something nice, smiling and thanking me for a wonderful night. I had returned the smile a little sadly, knowing I couldn't really take his advice. I didn't whore for spending money. Heading down the train tracks to my house, I counted in my head: I'd made $715, and $400 of it was fully mine, thanks to my tips.

I had only been asleep for a maximum of fifteen minutes when my bedroom door slammed against my wall, jolting me awake. Exhausted and groggy, I used all my remaining strength to turn my head and face the intruder, eyelids heavy. It didn't even need to register in my brain that my big brother stood in the doorway, and I had absolutely no energy to care when he came over.

He commented on how amazing it was that I could still be so tight after all these years. I said nothing when he chuckled evilly, grinding mercilessly into me for lying about working earlier. Tonight I didn't care, I didn't fight, the day having already been overwhelming enough to take everything out of me. As my mind retreated into itself, my weary body on autopilot, I imagined myself at Kyle's, playing video games, and gorging on junk food while I sneaked furtive peeks at is beautiful smile.

*-Present-*

"Hello, Kenneth."

I would scream as the creature's hollow voice echoes around me, but it seems I _have_ no voice. Breath hitches in my throat as a bizarre cloud of sharply swirled purple things rushes at my from above. I throw my arms over my head, and some kind of string wraps around one of my wrists, tightening itself; my voice streams back into my mouth, and I cry out as I'm yanked suddenly upward through the purple shapes. I can't feel anything, as if the now indistinct purple spirals around me are only blurry images making my eyes burn. A distorted giggle sounds on my right, and when I emerge halfway from the purple, my torso is floating in a sea of clouded green. I yelp at the sight of the tiny, sharp shadow person hovering nearby. Its yellow eyes gleam mischievously, and it grins when I try to move away, revealing tiny, microscopic teeth exactly like needles. My heart races dangerously, another little dark gray person snickering at my panic; their mocking laughter grows as I swat at them, my gut wrenching in disgust and fear. I'd seen these little creatures before, but I can't bring up the face of what I knew was supposed to show up next.

"Where am I?" I demand of the green haze, terrified the sharp-toothed things would answer. My voice is high-pitched, hysterical. This is a dream. I know it is, because the little shadows climbing all over me were in that nightmare, the nightmare with the face I'm trying so hard to remember.

"In an empty space. It is a dimension of its own," a haunting, smooth voice replies. "Don't be afraid, boy," the dark voice insists, amused.

"Who the _fuck_ are you?" I yell defensively, narrowing my gaze suspiciously at my emerald surroundings, some of my fear turned to indignant anger. I know that voice. The last thing I want to see is its face. The face I _couldn't fucking remember_. "What do y—_hrgck!_" Air cut off, I gasp for breath, choking on the lack of oxygen as another string tightens around my throat. This is starting to seem less and less like a dream. Since when do you need air in a dream?

Glowing amber eyes the size of my fucking head are right in my face as I'm pulled upward by the strings around my wrist and neck. The slate-skinned man grins, massive, jagged teeth glinting even without light to shine off of them. He has a dark pin-striped fedora on, pulled low, his eyes lengthwise almonds, but the brim does nothing to hide the unearthly eyes from my. I would choke even without being strangled, just with the sheer horror growing in my chest.

"Now, now, no need to fear," the hollow voice lows mockingly, but the monstrous creature's mouth doesn't move. Another distorted giggle draws my attention to my shoulder, where one of the tiny sharp things is latched onto my hoodie. "I wouldn't struggle if I were you," he suggests bemusedly as I fling my free arm out to throw it off, choking myself more in the process.

"W-what do you want?" I rasp, gagging slightly as I force myself to meet the enormous eyes. My vision is getting hazy, but now I remember the voice in clarity. The nightmare.

"I want to make a deal, Kenneth McCormick."

I smirk, what's left of my pride making me skeptical. I've had enough of nightmares – especially ones with _this_ asshole involved – and it's time to take back my own bloody dreams. "I've seen how your… 'deals' turn out," I begin, unrelenting. "Besides, you hafta… suffocate me to make a… a deal?" I retort with some effort. "No thanks."

A booming, cruel laugh rattles my teeth, and I flinch.

"You were so far away," reasons the creature, grin lessening to a smirk. He ignores my other comment. "And now you are hostile. Perhaps if you calm down…"

With my free hand, I arrogantly flip him off, glaring as effectively as I can. I'd watched this thing in my dreams, a dozen times. Everyone always ended up dead. I ended up dead all by myself, and I didn't want anyone else going down with me.

I jump with a cry, my legs and jeans being pulled underneath me as pin-pricks sting my skin. Smacking myself, I scream as dozens of the little shadow people climb up my body. Their tiny claws dig into me, but I know I won't bleed. "Get off!" I demand hoarsely, my pulse skyrocketing in panic. Soon the snickering things overwhelm me, tugging and clinging to my clothes and me.

"They won't hurt you," the being in the mafia hat assures me tightly. "They're just _playful_." I whimper, shutting my eyes as one climbs through my hair, pricking my scalp. "I know everything about you," lows the voice, the yellow eyes narrowing. "And I'd like to make your painful life better."

I would scoff, but I'm barely listening as it is, too focused on the creatures all over me.

"Aren't you sick of your brother raping you?"

My heart almost stops. What did he just say?

"Aren't you sick of your mother suffering your father's abuse, crying herself to sleep at night? Of failing in school? Whoring? _Dying_ constantly and being forgotten? Don't you want Kyle?" The last question makes me snap my head to the giant face, mortified. He even knows about _that?_ "Let's make a deal."

"What will you even… do?" I ask after several moments of debating. I still can't believe what's going on. I've dreamed about him already, some stranger taking an ax to a woman while he watched. Another burying three kids in the rain while he tipped is hat to leave. Another, crying her eyes out as she begged to negate her contract, covered in a man's blood – the man in her arms… this guy just smiled and vanished. But Jesus, this was a dream! They were all just dreams! What the hell could this nightmare man even _do_ to anyone, what could he _do_ about my _problems?_ I guess… I guess I can humor my fucked-up mind. "What would _I_ hafta do?" I add, distrusting.

"Life for you will simply become _better_," the dark voice replies smoothly, "Things will become easier—will _come_ easier…" Any other time, I would crack a dirty joke… Any _other_ time. "You will get what you want," he goes on, and the pressure on my throat begins to ease, the little shadow people starting to disappear in small swirls of smoke. "For I know you do not often _get what you want_. Then again…" The grin on the huge face before me melts into a thoughtful line. "You have been too busy letting life throw you around without a fight to want for much, haven't you?"

I turn away in response. "So what if I have?" I mutter defensively, my fingers tugging uselessly at the string around my neck. I feel small, pathetic. I don't really try anymore… do I? No. I guess I don't.

"Well, I shall remedy this for you, Kenneth," the yellow-eyed being promises, grinning again. The strings around my wrist and throat vanish, and suddenly I can breathe. Air in my lungs feels so damned _good_. I've suffocated to death before, a few times, and let me tell you, it really fucking sucks. "Want to make a deal?"

"You still haven't told me what I'm supposed to do in this 'deal' you're offering," I point out, remembering the blood spilled in the nightmares he'd starred in, rubbing my throat. It should be sore or something, but it doesn't even hurt. There aren't any marks on my wrists, either. This is definitely a dream.

"Blood."

Double-taking, I open my mouth several times to say something, but I can't. Is he serious? "You want… _blood_," I say at last, disbelieving. "What, like, you want _my_ blood? You supposed to be some kinda vampire?" I scoff, glancing around uncertainly. What the fuck is he going to do with _blood?_

"Don't be silly. There is no such thing as vampires."

I blink, raising an eyebrow. "Uh, right. What exactly are you, then?"

The fedora tipped itself, revealing a slick, bald head. "I… am the Puppet Master," he explains in a businessman's grand tone. A brand new piece of white paper appears in front of me, and jet-black typewriter text slowly fades into view. "Your contract."

At the top of the page in bold print was, "I, Kenneth McCormick," but the rest is too small to read. Obviously, this should be a warning sign, but I'm dreaming, right? A fancy fountain pen appears in my right hand, and almost unthinkingly, I move to sign on the line at the bottom. But I catch myself.

"How does this 'deal' thing work?" I ask carefully, pausing just above the paper.

His business smile twitches slightly, and I definitely notice. "I make your life better, you pay me in blood. I will help you to collect, do not worry…"

Blood. I still don't know what he means by that. Unconsciously signing the page, I ask, "How much will you help me with?"

"All of it."

Well, that seems both creepy and too good to be true, but before I can say so, the contract wisps away. The Puppet Master grins yet again, and out of the blue, I'm violently thrown back.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he says in amusement as I careen suddenly backward into the purple swirls again. I don't even have time to blink. _"Your first payment is due in three days' time."_

* * *

**A/N at the end: **Holy fuck. I hope this is as interesting as my head made it on the inside (?) because it was actually something I didn't read over the first time thinking, "wtf, mate?" Mostly. Ha, I had fun. This is a multi-chapter, yet again. I'm excited to do more. X33 And yes, I'm still finishing xSecond Chancex, it will be done. Updates are slow for various reasons, but neither of these will update at six months apart again, I swear. O...O


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